I visited my Rescuers yesterday. Instead of my suitcase and cat, I came armed with flowers and a family-size box of pastries from Angel Food (1636 W. Montrose). 'Twas strange indeed to see the interior of their house for what seemed like the first time, as it was so nightmarish before. The kids are cute, the mom is lovely and the house is still immaculate. I also picked up my bike, which has no spoke damage. The dad's theory is that my front brake was loose and somehow brought me to a dead stop (he actually *fixed* my brakes... are these people real??). It all happened so fast -- one minute I was turning a corner, the next there was an explosion of pain and I was spitting out a tooth -- that I really have no idea. But he and his wife saw the whole thing and said it was so quick ("like a bird had dropped out of the sky") that they looked at each other and said, "Did you see that?" Nonetheless there *is* a kind of cool spoke mark on the frame of the painting that I'd been carrying, and which I thought had lodged in the spokes and caused the accident. I prefer their theory (ie; it's not my fault for being reckless). But I do like that painting. And that family. Turns out they go to church with my friend Laura Ingalls Wilder, and asked her about me on Sunday. Ravenswood is a small world indeed. And will be immortalized forever in "Valerie Loves Me," which we (well I was stretched out on the couch) edited some more yesterday. The irony -- among other things Blaine was working on the scene featuring me (with my formerly perfect chin) riding my blue Schwinn around Ravenswood, sans helmet.
Funny how the aches and pains from the crash show up much, much later: there's something nasty going on in my left knee and hamstring, which feels nearly pulled, as well as that weird chest thing, which doesn't seem to be improving. It *really* didn't like teaching three hours straight this morning. It wasn't the only one. I got to the club only to realize my thermos o' chai -- or do you say raison d'être -- was missing from my bag. Throughout class all I could think about was my $30 thermos and its precious contents rolling across the parking lot, only to be footballed by some youthful ne'ers-do-well.
During the first class's savasana I pulled on my socks and planned a mad dash to the lot. But opening the door revealed the smiling face of the bubbly group fitness coordinator, who asked if I had a few minutes. I said of course (so much for getting in touch with my Inner Bitch). She wanted to know if I was going to India this winter, since I had mentioned as much on the 2005 schedule request form. I pointed to my ugly-ass Abe Lincoln chin and told her about my crash and Kirby's weenie problem and said, "I don't think so." ARGH! So now I'm committed to five months -- five months! twenty-odd Thursdays! -- of waking up at 4:50AM and teaching those two back-to-back classes. It's not the teaching I mind, it's the getting up. And being locked in. And needing the money. And committing to putting off India. And being tired (which makes me morose and short-tempered) all day Thursday and Friday. I had to take two naps and talk for over two hours on the phone today to recover. At least I found the thermos in my car. I also located my insurance card; apparently the ER deductable is $150. Vishnu only knows what kind of trouble they'll give me, or what my primary care physician will charge me for removing the stitches on Monday.....maybe I can talk her into throwing in a certain blood test I feel obliged to take. Anything to avoid the fresh hell of the free clinic....
I did finally pitch that idea to the NYT food section. And a music CC to the Reader. The latter bit. If I hear from the former I'll fall off my (non-aeron) chair.
Still haven't gotten on a bike or practiced yoga since the accident. Maybe Saturday.